Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (best classic books txt) 📗

They pulled back, leaving the dead to be collected later. Bigelow was wounded, and they carried him out. Vaccaro draped Cole’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him out of the tunnel as the sound of German firing increased. Cole felt like dead weight.

So far, it had been one hell of a fight and it hadn’t gone well. They had lost two men, along with a tank and its crew. As for Cole, it looked as if he was out of commission for the time being.

On the other side of the tunnel, the rest of the company had set up a defensive line, reinforced by the second Sherman tank. Now, the tables had turned. As the Jerries advanced through the tunnel, the Americans opened up with a withering fire. The tank fired directly into the mouth of the tunnel with a white phosphorous round, resulting in a blinding explosion. A single German soldier emerged, hands in the air, screaming as burning phosphorus consumed him.

Vaccaro fired, and the screaming ended.

It wasn’t the first time that he had shot someone, but even if he was just putting that poor German bastard out of his misery, it wasn’t something that he’d ever get used to.

He turned to look at Cole, who sat in the bottom of a foxhole with his eyes closed.

“Hillbilly, I hope you get better soon,” Vaccaro said. “You’re a whole lot better at this than I am.”

Chapter Twelve

Night returned, along with the bitter cold. The fresh snow that had fallen previously turned crunchy underfoot. Troops did what they could in their foxholes to stay warm, liberating tarps from the trucks and huddling together, but it wasn’t enough. Everybody was shivering and miserable.

Adding to his misery was the fact that Cole was still fighting the flu, the night passing for him in fitful dozing. His head ached. His bones hurt. Vaccaro gave have him some lukewarm instant soup that he had begged and borrowed, which was about the best that could be hoped for in these conditions. Vaccaro also brought him some hard candy to help with his sore throat.

“I swear I could have heated up that soup on your forehead, Hillbilly. You want me to get the medic? Maybe he can give you some more pills.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Cole said. “I’ll be all right in the morning.”

“If you say so.”

Cole finished the soup, sucked on a piece of candy, and slept.

Vaccaro had given Cole his own blanket, so he tugged his coat as tight around him as he could, shivering. They had been in a lot of tough spots, but even he had to admit that this night was a new low point. It was freezing cold. Cole was sick. The Germans had halted the attack on the village, killing the greenbean and one of the squad veterans, wounding Bigelow, and destroying a tank in the process. All that they could do now was sit in the snow and lick their wounds.

From the village, he and the other soldiers heard the sound of singing. The Germans occupying the houses were sheltered from at least some of the cold. They started fires in the fireplaces, breaking up furniture to burn because most of the firewood was gone. Still, with the windows open to shoot out of, awaiting another American attack, the conditions were hardly cozy. But from the perspective of the shivering American troops dug into the frozen ground, the enemy was enjoying the lap of luxury.

“I hate those Kraut bastards,” Vaccaro said. “They’re all nice and warm in those houses, drinking schnapps and eating sausages, while we freeze our asses off out here.”

“Why don’t you stroll on in there and see how you like it,” the sergeant suggested. “Maybe the Jerries will welcome you with open arms.”

“Yeah, right. What are they singing, anyhow?”

“Sounds like more Christmas music. Has a nice ring to it.”

The Germans must have gotten carried away with their attempts to keep warm, because one of the houses had caught fire and was burning merrily, casting a glow across the snowy village. They could see the shadows of enemy soldiers moving in the light cast by the flames, but nobody made any effort to put out the fire.

Dug into the cold ground, surrounded by snow and trees, all that the American troops could do was watch from a distance, wishing they could have some of the warmth from the fire.

For the next twenty-four hours, the American troops sat in their foxholes and shivered.

“What are we waiting for, sir?” Vaccaro asked Lieutenant Mulholland.

“Word has it that we’re supposed to get more tanks. They’re on the way.”

“It’s fine by me if they take their time getting here.”

Everybody understood what he meant. Once those tanks showed up, they would have to attack the village again. Nobody looked forward to going up against fortified enemy positions.

It soon became clear that the American prisoners in the village were going to complicate the attack. Refugees from the village began to enter the American lines, carrying news of the POWs.

“The Germans are holding more than two hundred men inside the Catholic church,” explained a villager named Madame Lavigne, who had fled the village with her elderly mother and a young niece. They were pushing their meager belongings in a wheelbarrow. Madame Lavigne owned a shop in town and looked formidable as a Panzer with her hefty build and winter coat, but the slim young niece attracted the attention of the soldiers. When they decided to camp with the Americans rather than take their chances on the road, several soldiers volunteered to help the niece set up a tent.

“How are the prisoners being treated?” Mulholland wanted to know.

“Some are wounded and there is not much food in town,” Madame Lavigne said. “Not all of the prisoners are in the church. Some are being held in basements here and there.”

From the sounds of it, a large portion of the infantry regiment that had been occupying Wingen had managed to